I Spy

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  High-power arc lights were strung along the roadway, and under their white glare Kathleen stole a glance at Miller. Handsome still, she admitted to herself, and the same broad-shouldered, athletic figure. He was the type of man which appeals to both men and women. She caught her breath sharply as bitter memories crowded upon her, and slipping down her hand, drew her skirts surreptitiously away from touching Miller. If he noted the movement he gave no sign.

  As the lights of Washington appeared, the chauffeur reduced the limousine’s speed to that required by law. They were in the heart of the resident section when a snore from Spencer explained his long silence. The warmth and motion of the limousine, combined with his overindulgence in wine, had lulled him to sleep. With an effort Kathleen roused herself from her dismal reflections.

  “Can I leave you anywhere, Captain—Miller?” she inquired frigidly.

  “No thanks, I will walk to my hotel after I have seen you safely home.”

  Kathleen fumbled with the clasp of her evening wrap and stared down the empty streets. She waited until they were approaching Lafayette Square, then broke her silence for the second time.

  “I desire that you leave me here,” she stated calmly. “I am now within a few blocks of my home.” Without waiting for comment she leaned forward, tapped upon the front window, and signaled Henry to stop.

  Miller rose as the limousine drew up to the curb. “As you wish,” he said courteously. “But I do not think this man a suitable companion for you,” and collaring Spencer, he opened the door and, thrusting the still sleeping man out on the pavement, sprang out after him.

  Henry’s eyes bulged as he saw the two men, but Miller’s manner stopped the ejaculation upon his lips.

  “Take Miss Whitney home,” directed Miller, and lifting his hat to Kathleen he watched the limousine turn a corner and disappear. Then he glanced down at Spencer sprawling on the pavement. A queer smile lighted his face as he stared at the lawyer.

  “What’s your little game, Spencer?” he asked softly, and a hearty kick punctuated the question.

  Chapter VI.

  At the Capitol

  Mrs. Whitney’s usually placid disposition was decidedly ruffled, and she took no pains to conceal her displeasure.

  “Really, Kathleen, you are greatly at fault,” she said, as the girl joined her in the vestibule. “The idea of keeping Henry at the Club until after midnight! No wonder he is late now. No chauffeur can work both day and night.”

  “I’m sorry, mother,” but Kathleen did not look particularly penitent; she considered that the faithful Henry had a soft berth. That he worked occasionally would not prove harmful. She had hoped to avoid going to the Capitol that morning, and when told that Henry had not appeared either at the house for orders or at the garage, she had supposed the trip would be given up. But Mrs. Whitney was of the persevering kind, and with her to plan was to accomplish. Decidedly upset by Henry’s non-appearance in her well conducted household, she had ordered the garage to fill his place temporarily, and her limousine was at last at the door.

  Mrs. Whitney was giving her final direction to the new chauffeur as to which she considered the best and safest route to the Capitol and the speed she wished maintained, when her husband joined them.

  “I’ve decided to take a morning off and go with you,” he announced, entering the limousine. “Room for me on the back seat?”

  “Surely,” and his wife patted the wide cushion. “We do not possess a superabundance of flesh in this family.”

  “Except Dad,” interpolated Kathleen mischievously. She knew her father disliked the idea of getting fat, while lacking the initiative of keeping thin. “What you need, Dad, is a cold plunge and a ten-mile walk before breakfast.”

  Whitney shuddered. “Nice comfortable ideas you have, Kathleen, for a winter day. It strikes me you should take a dose of your own medicine.” Inspecting her keenly. “Late hours do not improve your appearance, young lady.”

  “Thanks,” but her usually sunny smile was strained. “And I suppose you still work all night, Dad, disobeying Dr. McLane’s orders.”

  “I don’t take orders from McLane,” shortly. “And I didn’t work very late last night. Your mother came up and tried some of her Sisters in Unity persuasion upon me, and I capitulated.”

  Mrs. Whitney did not take the jest in good part. While she reveled in society, she was essentially a clubwoman, and nothing delighted her so much as debating and delivering addresses. She was a capital extemporaneous speaker, and had held prominent offices in different clubs. Possessing no sense of humor, which her husband and Kathleen had in abundance, she seriously objected to their poking fun at her beloved organization, the Sisters in Unity, of which she was a charter member. Any allusion to it in fun she considered an offense in good taste. Therefore withdrawing into dignified silence she permitted Whitney and Kathleen to keep up the conversation. In fact, Whitney did most of the talking, and neither he nor his wife perceived Kathleen’s inattention.

  “I’m on the high road to solving the last problem,” he exulted. “The invention is simple, so very simple, but, Minna, it will revolutionize many things in warfare. You won’t be ashamed of your old Dad, Kathleen, when the world acknowledges what I’ve done.”

  “I’m proud of you now, and always have been,” affirmed Kathleen, and leaning over she placed a spray of lilies-of-the-valley from her bouquet in his buttonhole.

  “Who sent you the flowers, Kathleen?” inquired Mrs. Whitney.

  “I don’t know; I could find no card or note with them.”

  “Perhaps Sinclair Spencer has decided to send them anonymously.” With a look of repugnance, Kathleen pulled the flowers off and before her father could interfere, opened the door and tossed the bouquet into the street. “Good gracious, Kathleen, don’t take everything that I say literally!” exclaimed Mrs. Whitney. “I am sorry I suggested.…”

  “I am not, mother. After last night, nothing would induce me to wear his flowers again,” declared Kathleen with spirit. “Father, what made you tele—”

  “Here we are,” broke in Whitney, apparently not hearing Kathleen’s remark, as the limousine drew up at the entrance to the Senate side of the Capitol. “Jump out, Kathleen. Careful, Minna.” But without assistance Mrs. Whitney sprang lightly to the ground, a worried look on her face.

  “I do believe, Winslow,” she said, “that I have left my admission card to the private gallery at home. It isn’t in my bag.”

  “Don’t mind, I’ll look up Randall Foster; he’ll see we get in. Come this way.”

  They found the corridors of the huge building filled with hurrying men and women, and Whitney spent fully twenty minutes before he succeeded in obtaining the coveted card to the private gallery from his friend, Senator Foster. To Mrs. Whitney’s dismay they found the gallery filled; but fortune favored them, for just after their entrance three women seated in the front row rose and made their way out. With a quickness which showed her familiarity with conventions Mrs. Whitney pounced upon the seats, and sank into hers with a sigh of thankfulness. She had overcome a number of obstacles that morning to get there, and though it was a small matter she hated to be thwarted in anything she undertook.

  Kathleen, like many another Washingtonian, confined her visits to the Capitol to sightseeing trips with out-of-town friends, and she had come there that morning only because she could think of no good reason for staying away. To her inward surprise she soon found her attention absorbed by the debate going on in the Senate, and when one of the distinguished lawmakers commenced a characteristic speech she became unconscious of the flight of time. As the Senator ended his fiery peroration, she raised her head and, glancing toward the Diplomats’ Gallery, recognized Captain Charles Miller sitting in the front row regarding her.

  “Have you seen Medusa’s head?” asked Whitney, tugging at her elbow. “Wake up, Kathleen, unless you’ve been turned into marble. Your mother’s told you three times that Senator Foster has invited us to lunch with h
im. She is waiting for us in the corridor. Come along.”

  As they joined Mrs. Whitney, a young man hurried up to them. “I am Senator Foster’s secretary,” he explained. “The Senator has gone direct to the dining-room on the ground floor. This way, please,” and he piloted them to an elevator. On reaching the private dining-room of the Senate they found not only Foster but Miss Kiametia Grey awaiting them.

  “This is my lucky day,” exclaimed Foster, heartily. “First, you tell me your wife and Miss Kathleen are here, Whitney; then I meet Kiametia on the way to the gallery.” Mrs. Whitney smiled covertly. The Senator’s courtship of the wealthy spinster was one of the most discussed topics in smart society. “Couldn’t resist the temptation to have you all lunch with me,” added Foster. “Won’t you sit here, Mrs. Whitney,” pulling out a chair on his right, “and Kiametia,” indicating the chair on his left, “and Whitney next to you. Miss Kathleen, it’s not etiquette to place father and daughter together, but I have a stranger for your other hand. Ah, here he comes.…”

  Kathleen’s back was to the entrance of the dining-room, but a sixth sense warned her who the newcomer was, and her face was expressionless when Foster introduced his friend, Captain Miller, to Mrs. Whitney and her husband. After greeting Miss Kiametia, Miller stepped to Kathleen’s side.

  “Good morning,” he said quietly, and held out his hand. Kathleen drew back, then good breeding mastered her indignation. A second later her hand was laid in his and instantly withdrawn, but her fingers tingled from his strong clasp.

  “Jolly party you must have had last night, Kiametia.” Foster’s cheery voice enabled Kathleen to control her somewhat shaken nerves. “Telephoned Sinclair Spencer to stop and see me this morning, but his servant said he never showed up until noon today.”

  “Kathleen pleaded guilty to a sleepless night,” volunteered Mrs. Whitney, to the girl’s secret indignation.

  “It was the lobster,” answered Miss Kiametia. “I tried to warn you not to eat it, Kathleen.”

  “Well, your lobster won’t account for the non-appearance of Henry,” mourned Mrs. Whitney, her mind harking back to her own grievance. “How d’ye do, Mrs. Sunderland,” as an elaborately gowned woman swept by their table, barely returning their greeting.

  “It is the regret of my life,” announced Miss Kiametia, her eyes twinkling, “that I never kept a photograph of Mrs. Sunderland taken when she first came to Washington ten years ago. It would provide a study in expression and expansion in social snobbery.”

  Mrs. Whitney, conscious that she was perhaps rude by her silence, turned to Captain Miller who had taken no part in the conversation.

  “Is this your first visit to Washington, Captain?” she inquired.

  “Yes, and I find its residents so delightful that I hope to prolong my stay.”

  “What did you think of the speech today?” broke in Foster.

  “Capital! The Senator is right; if this government ship purchase bill goes through, the country will indeed be buying a quarrel.”

  “Quite right,” agreed Whitney, laying down his fork. “The only people who fail to see it in that light are those advocating the bill’s passage. Every nation thinks the same.”

  “Except possibly Germany,” argued Foster. “She would probably try and sell us the hundreds of interned ships in our seaports.”

  “Well, why shouldn’t she?” Miss Kiametia, with recollections of her misgivings the night before, declined the lobster croquettes. “With the German steamships and freighters interned here we should have a merchant marine ready to our hand.”

  “And thereby provide instant use for our navy,” retorted Whitney.

  “Uncle Sam had better think twice before taking issue with the German submarines,” grumbled Miss Kiametia.

  Whitney’s eyes lit with an angry sparkle, and he opened his mouth to speak, but his wife gave him no opportunity.

  “Are you pro-German, Kiametia?” she asked in astonishment.

  “Well, I lean that way,” admitted the spinster. “You know I’m named for the sister of Pocahontas, and my drop of Indian blood gives me a good memory. It strikes me that this nation is overlooking the American Revolution, not to mention 1812, and I also recollect that England did not show us particular friendship during the Civil War.”

  “The idea of waving the bloody shirt of 76!” exclaimed Kathleen. “For shame, Miss Kiametia! We Anglo-Saxons must stand together. And another thing: Germany may have wiped the Belgians off the map, but she’s lodged them in every American heart.”

  “And we’ll wake up some day and find the Germans sitting in Canada,” retorted Miss Kiametia. “Looking at U. S.”

  ‘“Over the garden wall,’” quoted Whitney laughing. “No, no, Kiametia. Wave the bloody shirt, but don’t try to scare us with a straw man.”

  “Straw or not, the Kaiser is the world’s bogy man. He has taught us a lesson in preparedness which this country will be slow to imitate.”

  “Uncle Sam is a good disciplinarian but a poor student,” acknowledged Whitney, fingering the table ornaments nervously. “Well, Foster, I’ve enjoyed myself immensely, but there’s work awaiting me at home, and I really must run along.”

  Mrs. Whitney, talking placidly with Captain Miller, looked considerably taken aback by her husband’s precipitancy. Hastily draining the last drop of her demi-tasse, she added her thanks and good-byes, and followed her husband and Kathleen from the room.

  “I’ll walk home,” announced Kathleen, as Whitney signaled to their chauffeur. “It will do me good, I need a constitutional.”

  “But—but it’s over a mile,” protested Mrs. Whitney.

  “All the better,” and waving her muff in farewell, Kathleen hastened off through the grounds in the direction of Pennsylvania Avenue. She found the cold invigorating air a bracing tonic after the steam-heated atmosphere of the Capitol, and was thoroughly enjoying her walk when she became conscious that a figure was keeping pace with her. Looking up, she recognized Captain Miller. Kathleen stopped.

  “Which way are you going?” she demanded, totally unconscious of the pretty tableau she made, her dark beauty enhanced by a becoming hat and silver fox furs. Not anticipating her abrupt halt, Miller was forced to retrace his footsteps.

  “I spoke to you twice, Miss Whitney, but you apparently did not hear me,” he answered, lifting his hat. “I asked if I might accompany you, and took silence for consent. My way lies your way.”

  Kathleen’s fingers clenched tightly together inside her muff. “Are you dead to all sense of decency?” she asked. “Can you not see that your presence is an offense?”

  Miller’s color rose, and there was an ominous flash in his blue-gray eyes, but she met his look undauntedly. “I think you take an exaggerated view of the matter,” he said quietly. “I desire your friendship.”

  “You dare ask that after.…”

  With a quiet masterful gesture Miller stopped her. “We are living in the present,” he said. “I repent the past. Come”—with deepening earnestness, “you are warmhearted, impulsive, generous—be generous to me—give me a chance to make good. Before God, I will not fail you.”

  Kathleen scanned him keenly. Could she place faith in his sincerity? As she met the penetrating glance she knew of old, now softened by the fascination of his winning smile, she came again under the old personal charm.

  “I cannot be friends with a man whom I do not respect,” she stammered.

  “But you shall respect me,” with dogged determination, “and then.…”

  A bevy of girls, coming out of Gait’s, paused to greet Kathleen, and Miller, not waiting to complete his sentence, bowed to her and continued up the Avenue. He paid no attention to the streets he traversed, but on turning into F Street sought shelter near a shop to light his cigarette. As he threw the burnt match to the pavement he was attracted by a large photograph of Kathleen Whitney in the window. It was an excellent likeness, and Miller, studying the clear-cut features, the lovely eyes, and soft ripp
ling hair, felt his heart throb. He glanced at the sign above the window and found he was standing before Edmonston’s Photographic Studio. On impulse he entered the building.

  Miller’s absorption in Kathleen’s photograph had not gone unnoticed, and when he emerged from the studio, the observer accosted him.

  “Beg pardon, sir, I’m Henry, Mr. Whitney’s chauffeur,” he said. “Mr. Spencer, sir, was much put out to wake up this morning, sir, and find himself in a strange hotel.”

  “Better that than being registered ‘drunk and disorderly,’” smiled Miller.

  “Yes, Captain Miller. I told him, sir, that you had done him a service.”

  “Ah, indeed? May I ask how you know who I am?”

  “I made out you’d have trouble with Mr. Spencer, sir, and as soon as I’d left Miss Kathleen at home, sir, I ran the car back down by the park, sir, just in time to see you leading Mr. Spencer into the hotel. The doorman there gave me your name, sir.”

  “I see,” replied Miller thoughtfully. “I lunched with Mr. Whitney today, and it was mentioned that you had not shown up,” and his eyes were guilty of a peculiar glint as he scrutinized the intelligent face and finely proportioned figure of the chauffeur.

  Henry reddened. “I wasn’t feeling very well in the night, sir, and overslept,” he explained. “Eh, Captain,” as Miller turned away. “I saw you looking, sir, at Miss Kathleen’s picture. Did you get a copy in Edmonston’s?”